


A Doll Named Francine

by MissGillette



Series: Xavierine Rare Pair Hell [4]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Gray Ending, Human Charles, M/M, Morally Gray Everyone, Object Insertion, Slavery, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGillette/pseuds/MissGillette
Summary: Charles has been his Lady's Doll, her Francine, since they were children. Horrible, unforgivable things have happened to him under her care. But perhaps her friend Erik will be better than the others. [Unfinished]





	1. Erik I

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a Mutant/Human dystopia fic since I fuckin GOT on this scene. Please know, the dub-con warning should be taken **very** seriously. This isn't the "oh, I shouldn't want this, but maybe I do because it's hot" dub-con. This is "worse things will happen to me if I don't bend over and submit" dub-con. And the crossdressing/feminization thing is canon for this AU, but to Charles it's really not something he buys into or enjoys. Hence the warning. 
> 
> Another heads up, this story is end game Logan/Charles. ~~The ship isn't tagged yet, because~~ this first part is purely Cherik, with past mention of Others/Charles and Shaw/Charles. ALL of it is dubious at best, EVEN the later parts with Logan. No one is good in this story. No one is saving Charles. Hence the "Gray Ending" tag. Please leave below your questions/comments/tags you think I should add for safety n such. Cheers!

_ Francine, sugar, could you bring some tea into my study, please? _

Sighing, Charles slots his index finger between the pages of his book and sits up. His hair, having slipped loose from its ribbon, sticks to the back of his shirt, just below his shoulder blades. He finds the bookmark he’d left on the coffee table and replaces his finger with it and then tends to his hair. The ribbon is silky and baby blue in his hands. Bringing his hair over his shoulder, Charles ties the ribbon around it and casts the bundle of it behind him. When he stands, he smoothes out wrinkles in his knee-high socks and checks the buttons on his breeches. His Lady doesn’t particularly like these clothes on him, preferring the dresses she has ordered for him, but at least he can look put together. Running a few fingers under the suspenders digging into his shoulders, Charles casts one last, longing look over his little hideaway and leaves for the kitchen downstairs. He descends the stairs silently in his socked feet, making sure not to jostle about so. It’s easier if he pretends his Lady is here watching, or if he’s in one of those ridiculous dresses. There’s no use pouting about it. There’s tea to make.

Charles gives the kettle privacy and dives into the pantry to find the tea his Lady enjoys. “Enjoys” is stretching exactly how she feels about tea. She perhaps grimaces a bit less at this jasmine tea than say Charles’ favorite, Earl Grey. Tea tin in hand, Charles freezes in the pantry, questioning why his Lady wants tea. He stares at the tin as if it can tell him the answer, because they both know she never drinks it. Nerves set on edge at the thought, Charles moves about the kitchen all the quieter. He’s quick to snatch the kettle from the stove just before it whistles, pouring hot water over the three bags he’d thrown into the bottom of the pot. Gathering the pot, sugar, milk, and cookies he’d thought to include at the last second happens on autopilot once he’s found the silver tray in a cabinet. With a gust of air from his mouth, Charles blows a fine layer of dust off the tray before setting it down. He only picks it up once he’s sure everything is well balanced. Ass first to swing the kitchen door open, Charles shuffles lightly on his feet to his Lady’s study.

_ Come in _ , whispers in his mind when he stops outside the door.

Charles nudges the door open with his hip and dips into the room when the tray can clear the opening. His plastic smile is already set under the gloss of his lips and the rouge on his cheeks. It crumbles along with his composure when his eyes land on someone else in the study, other than his Lady. With her blonde hair hanging over one shoulder, Lady Frost smiles and chats pleasantly with a tall, stern looking man. He had probably been staring at the door the whole time. His thin lips are set into a tight line, and his hands hang over the edges of his chair’s arms like giant paws. Steel eyes narrow at Charles, inspecting him from head-to-toe. A stray hair escapes the gel holding the man’s hair back, and he lifts a hand to card his fingers through it to smooth it all back. The teacups on Charles’ tray clink together as he shakes under such scrutiny. He jumps when his Lady clears her throat, impatient with his timid behavior.

“Francine,” she begins with false sweetness. “Sugar, you’re not properly dressed.”

Charles glances between his Lady and her guest. She knows he won’t speak, has never spoken to her since his first week with her. But the man’s thin lips shift into a frown the longer Charles says nothing. Charles might not have a power like his Lady, but he can read the atmosphere. Shoulders tight and fingers tapping on the chair’s arm, Charles reads the man’s annoyance clearly. Meanwhile, the tea just grows colder and steeps longer while he stands there. Soon, no amount of sugar and milk will make it palatable for his Lady. He takes a cautious step forward when the man’s annoyance seems to break. He almost smiles at Charles.

With a slight accent, he says, “She looks perfect the way she is. Better than the photograph you showed me, even.” He waves a long-fingered hand towards himself and adds, “Please, join us.”

It’s Lady Frost’s turn to tighten her lips into a line. She lifts an eyebrow at Charles, and he scuttles forward to obey. The tray lands with barely a sound on the coffee table between them.

“Erik,” she says to her guest, “this is my Doll I’ve told you about.” Charles glances at her from under a few flyaway strands of hair that have escaped his ribbon. “Erik is an old friend of mine, Francine. Treat him as you would me.”

She doesn’t need to tell  **him** that, but Charles squashes any rebellious thoughts before they take form. If he had known he’d be entertaining more than just her, he certainly would have changed. Charles scolds himself while setting teacups up for both of them. He knows how to make a cup his Lady might take a sip from and does just that. The other cup he simply pours tea into, turning the handle towards Erik. He then immediately shifts to kneel at his Lady’s feet, but she waves him away with a hand and a brief twist of her lips.

“Tend to my guest, Francine.” She leans forward to lift the cup from where Charles had placed it. She holds it without tasting the tea. “He’s come a long way to meet you.”

Charles turns his eyes onto the stranger while rising back to his feet. He hesitates to kneel at Erik’s feet, remembering all the times other men have kicked him away and laughed at his scrambling. A push in his mind, like a vicious finger digging into a bruise, sets him on his way, though. Charles kneels careful at Erik’s polished, black shoes with his head already down. One hand shifts from its relaxed position, though, and tilts his chin up. Charles absolutely does not look into those grey eyes. Not with his Lady watching over the rim of her cup. He feels her pleased hum in the back of his mind. He relaxes as her pride in his manners washes over him.

“Must you kneel like that, pretty doll?” Erik asks him. His teeth are white and very straight behind his lips. “There are plenty of other places for you to sit.”

His Lady scoffs at Erik’s comment and rises on her white heels. Abandoning her untouched cup back on the tray, Lady Frost tosses her hair off her shoulder and struts towards the door. Charles won’t turn his head out of Erik’s hand, but he watches her go with desperate eyes. He begs her not to go, pushing his desperation and fear to the front of his mind. He knows she laughs at such emotions coming from him, but perhaps she’ll take pity on his this time and stay. It isn’t often she leaves him with her “friends,” claiming his delicate nature too good for them. Still, a moment alone with them usually gets Charles nothing but rough hands under his skirts and burns from facial hair rubbing his exposed neck. His Lady pauses with her hand on the door handle and glances over her shoulder at him.

“I’ll be back soon, sugar. Don’t mind Erik. He’s quite a gentleman. Light his cigarettes and be a good girl, won’t you?”

Charles presses his lips tightly together when she slips out the door. His heartbeat kicks into high gear, beating a punishing rhythm against his ribs. He’s thankful at that moment to be free of a corset. Even without the constraining garment, Charles struggles to control his breathing. Every gust of air out his nose brushes over the meat of Erik’s thumb, where his fingers still trap Charles’ hairless chin. A squeeze from those fingers wrangles Charles’ attention from the now shut door back to the man himself. Charles turns his eyes down at Erik’s knees, rather than look him in the eye.

“A cigarette does sound rather good right about now,” Erik murmurs to him. “Would you, please?”

Charles doesn’t move until Erik releases him. He rises under Erik’s heavy eyes peering at him in the dim of Lady Frost’s study. The study isn’t decorated to her tastes—clean lines, minimalist, and white. It’s staged purely for guests. Charles prefers the traditional style of the room, with its heavy, wooden furniture and thick rugs under foot. The room does lean towards the darker side, though, and Charles turns on another lamp as he approaches the silver box where his Lady keeps tobacco and papers for guests. She herself of course doesn’t smoke and doesn’t allow Charles the deviance, either. He’d sneak one, but she would of course find out. Charles returns to Erik with the box in hand and almost drops to his knees again. Erik sits forward in a flash, though, and stops him with a hand on his arm.

“I won’t tell the good Lady Frost you sat in her chair if you don’t,” he teases with a smile. “Although I’m sure you can manage just fine on the floor, I’d rather you sit and roll for me in a chair.”

Charles nods with a queasy stomach. Hiding behind Erik’s request won’t necessarily save him from punishment, if his Lady is displeased later. Erik’s eyes and smile stay trained on him, waiting, and Charles gives in to the request just to move them along. Charles perches on the edge of the chair while setting the box beside the tea set. The tobacco inside is dry, but not crumbling yet, and the scent rises up to his nose like a prowling tiger. Charles enjoys the smell before people take a light to the leaves. After that, men enjoy blowing smoke in his face and cheering at his sputtering. Charles withholds a sigh, still under Erik’s watchful gaze, and rolls him a cigarette without thinking about it. This, like putting the tea together, is all part of the role he plays at his Lady’s side.

Paper sealed with a bit of moisture from his tongue, Charles stands with a matchbook in his other hand. He bends towards Erik and offers the other end to his mouth. Erik meets him halfway and holds the cigarette while Charles lights in. The tang of the match taking light floats up into Charles’ nose, which he enjoys before the inevitable moment where Erik exhales at him. The light from the match casts hard, brief shadows across Erik’s face. This close, and with the slightest of glances, Charles catches speckles of green in Erik’s eyes. The vision passes, though, when Erik leans away from the spent match to pull a drag off the cigarette. Charles doesn’t bother moving.

Exhaling out to the side, Erik plucks the cigarette from his mouth and appraises it with raised eyebrows. “Not your first time doing this, I see.”

Charles shakes his head after the rush of surprise leaves him. He watches blue smoke curl and float towards the ceiling, rather than around his face. Erik blowing smoke  **away** from him instead of in his face floors Charles enough that he takes a step back and plops down in the chair again. Erik doesn't notice his shock and enjoys a few more drags from the cigarette. The smoke collects in the room and turns Charles’ vision hazy. He coughs at the secondhand smoke and firmly resists waving his hand to clear the air. He doesn't want to insult Erik.

Erik licks his lips where he’d held the cigarette between them, once against glancing up and down Charles’ body. He adjusts his hand after a thought and offers the unlit end to Charles.

“Would you?”

Charles shakes his head again, only a bit more vigorously this time. His Lady would never allow it.

Erik patronizes him with a smile meant for children, and jerks the smoking cigarette towards him again.

“Please, Francine? Indulge me a bit.”

Refusing the request of a guest would beget him a worse punishment than smoking. Licking his lips purely out of nervousness, Charles rises again out of his Lady’s seat and hovers at Erik’s arm. Erik’s smile morphs into something true and satisfied, and Charles takes pleasure in having done what Erik had asked. Careful of grazing Erik’s fingers with his mouth, Charles leans close enough to drag off the cigarette the same as he’s seen many times before. It’s not as easy as it looks, and Charles realizes that when the smoke hits the back of his throat and  **burns** . He has enough wits to turn his head away from Erik before coughing wetly. And oh, if the smell of smoke in his face is horrible, than the taste is purely vile. Charles covers his mouth with the back of his hand and compares the taste to the scent of dirty laundry water. His eyes sting as tears spring up. Erik chuckles beside him, and he wedges the cigarette into a divot in the empty ashtray on the side table.

“Poor girl,” Erik coos at him with a comforting hand caressing his back. “That wasn’t very nice of me. I hope you can forgive me.”

Through the tears stinging his eyes, Charles nods while leaving his hand in front of his mouth. He shifts away from Erik, to return to his Lady’s chair, but Erik’s hand drifting to his shoulder stops him.

“Thank you for that. Might I bother you with one more request?”

Charles lowers his hand to his chin and nods. He blinks rapidly to prevent his tears from spilling over his face, but one escapes anyway. Erik tuts at him and wipes the trail away with his thumb. Charles blushes under his gentle touch and stays still for him. That done, Erik reaches for his hands, the one at his side and the one still at his chin. Erik pulls him closer until their knees touch.

“Will you sit with me?”

Confused, Charles glances at the empty chair before quickly looking back to Erik. Erik drops his gaze with a smile while also releasing one of his hands. Erik pats his own thigh before grabbing Charles’ hand again. Charles stares at him, fighting a blush growing under his rouge and powder. He’s sat in a handful of laps over his years serving his Lady. He can recall none as sober or as handsome as Erik, though. He also can’t recall any whom didn’t just pull him into their laps, to fondle him however they wanted. His Lady allows it so long as he doesn’t embarrass her at whatever party or club they’re in at the time. Charles neither pulls away nor comes closer, though.

“Please, Francine? I mean you no harm, I swear.” Erik turns his eyes, softer now than ever before, up at Charles with earnest desire shining in them. “You may yell and call for your Lady, if I frighten you.”

She would not come if he called. Charles knows better, now. It had been heartbreaking, the first time he’d screamed for help only to receive no response. He hadn’t used his voice, of course, but that leaves even less excuse for Lady Frost to have not heard his pleas. Charles shivers in Erik’s hands, recalling that night that had taught him once and for all that his Lady cared not for what happened to him, so long as the damage isn’t permanent or visible through his clothes. Erik’s open smile slips a bit into a frown the more Charles’ curls in on himself.

“I will not hurt you, my darling,” Erik murmurs to him. “Please, believe me.”

Under a crushing wave of hopelessness, Charles nods and shuffles closer. He turns to the side and fits his hips and legs over Erik’s lap. His legs end up curling over one of Erik’s knees to dangle above the floor. Charles’ arms wrap loosely around Erik’s neck. Meanwhile, one of Erik’s arms cradles his back, and the other drapes over his thighs. Charles claps himself on the back a second time since bringing tea for not wearing his usual dresses and finery. It’s about this time that men usually slip their filthy hands up his skirts to touch him where he never wants them to. Erik’s caressing hands remain chaste and over his clothes, though. It just another surprise from the man Charles isn’t prepared for.

Erik nuzzles his face into Charles’ pressed, white shirt and sighs. “This isn’t so bad, now is it?”

Charles shakes his head against the short locks of Erik’s auburn hair. It smells of spices and the sea.

Erik’s breath is a hot gush over the hollow of Charles’ throat when he speaks next. “Thank you for this. You’ve made me very happy.”

Charles holds him tighter and bites back a smile. He isn’t sure what to do with the praise, so he holds it awkwardly in his heart. Erik hums against his shoulder and leans back, dislodging Charles’ cheek in his hair. Erik drags his hand from Charles’ thigh, up his side to fuss with the top button on his shirt. It tickles along Charles’ collarbones, and he stifles a giggle while pushing at Erik’s hand. Erik smiles at him and takes Charles’ hand in his. His lips are smooth without a scrape of facial hair when he kisses the back of it. Charles stills in his lap, uncertainty upsetting his stomach again.

Erik gazes up at him with their heads already tucked near one another. Charles feels Erik’s question brush against his chin, more so than hearing it.

“May I kiss you, Francine?”

Some of the bubbling happiness that had blossomed in Charles’ heart sours at Erik’s request. Erik’s kindness and slow, gentle hands had foolishly made him hope that Erik wouldn't be like the others. But as Erik smiles up at him, with grey eyes trained on the shiny gloss on his lips, Charles sags a bit in his lap and knows better. Biting his lower lip and disrupting Erik’s feast of him, Charles twists at the hip to stare at the door. He begs his Lady to return, to end this dream-turned-nightmare. A distressed whine slips from his throat, and Erik is quick to tilt his chin back around and shush him. His thumb catches the full edge of Charles’ lower lip in the process.

“I'm sure your Lady won't mind,” Erik says lightly. “Just one kiss. I won't bite.” He grins as if that idea is funny.

Charles’ shoulders slump down. He wants to be back upstairs, amongst his books and plush pillows. He wants to disappear in the stacks so that no one can find him. Erik is just another man—another “friend” of his Lady’s who would like a piece of him. Charles blinks at Erik’s excited eyes, the glow and flush in his cheeks. His thumb twitches at Charles’ lower lip, stroking and smudging the gloss there. Exhaustion washes over Charles and threatens to drown him. He shuts his eyes against the rogue wave and imagines himself somewhere else. They never want just one kiss.

Charles gently knocks Erik’s hand from his chin and shifts back, off his lap. Erik’s brows furrow together, and his hands lift up to capture Charles and drag him back. Charles doesn't give him the chance, though, and straddles Erik’s lap with his knees squeezing between Erik and the chair. It's a tight fit, but once Erik catches on, his hands eagerly seek Charles’ trim waistline to hold him. Charles shifts with his ass nearer to Erik’s knees, but Erik isn't having that. His hands greedily draw them together with Charles’ thighs spread wide and gripping his hips. Charles swallows a lump in his throat at the thought of something hard and eager pressing against his upper thigh.

Erik’s nose brushing his own knocks Charles out of his numb thoughts. Erik’s breath ghosts past his lips the second before Erik surges up against him. His hands, on the verge of bruising, hold Charles flush against him, belly to belly. Charles whines into Erik’s mouth when Erik licks along the seam of his lips. A brutal grind of Erik’s hips into his own has him gasping and throwing his arms around Erik’s neck. Erik takes advantage of his shock to trace the edges of Charles open lips with his tongue, only slipping inside after a barely contained groan from both of them. Erik wrenches his mouth away to suck in a breath, but returns just as quickly before Charles can escape. His hands burn through Charles’ clothes while he thrusts between their tight bodies.

After a second, breathless kiss, Erik pulls away for a break. His eyes devour the state of Charles’ red lips, where he'd licked and smeared the gloss away. His peels a hand from Charles’ hips to thumb at that abused, lower lip. The sharp edge of Charles’ bottom teeth grazes the pad of his thumb, and Erik shivers. Charles watches him with red-rimmed eyes and frantic breaths flowing in and out his mouth. Erik surges up one last time for a chaste kiss before dropping his hand back to holding Charles hard against his erection.

“Thank you for being such a good girl, Francine.” Charles squeezes his eyes shut and shudders. “You were marvelous.”

Erik arches back to plant soft kisses at the corner of Charles’ mouth, along his clean jaw. The wet smack of lips roars in Charles’ ear when Erik draws close enough to nibble on the lobe. It sends a jolt, molten hot, from the back of his head to just behind his navel. As much as he tries, Charles can't fight the tingling awakening where Erik rubs and grinds on him. The ghostly touch of arousal is like defrosting his fingers after playing in the snow. It burns inside him and sets him to quivering and gasping into Erik’s hair. The harmony of Erik’s grunts and Charles’ strangled gasps fills the study until there's nothing else for them to hear.

Erik’s hands scramble at his hips, slipping to his back. They hover above the edge of his waistband. Erik’s long fingers twist in the material of Charles’ tucked in shirt and pull, yanking it free from his breeches. Cool air caressing his lower back shocks Charles, and he jumps in Erik’s lap, accidentally thrusting along Erik’s stomach. Erik chuckles darkly where he's taken to mouthing and nipping at Charles’ throat. The tight pressure against his cock with every jerk of Erik’s body punches a gasp out of him.

“Oh, Franny,” Erik whispers to him with a voice syrupy and heavy. “You don't have to be quiet, my darling. No one will hear you but me.”

Charles only bites his lip harder than ever before to stifle himself. Erik’s hands quickly become bored with sweeping up and down his back. His clever fingertips find the lacy edge of the damn, useless bra his Lady makes him wear all the time. Erik goes stone still against him when he realizes what Charles is wearing. The notion must pile on fuel to his already searing fire, though, because he rips at the little hooks holding the bra closed. His thin lips suck to bring up blood under Charles’ skin, and his teeth graze painfully along each mark. With the bra finally undone, Erik rips his hands out from Charles’ shirt and fists then in the front. With a powerful yank, Erik sends all the buttons popping off the shirt and sprinkling to the floor. Charles yelps, but Erik shoves his shirt and bra out of the way to set his mouth on a tiny, pink nipple.

Charles’ frightened yelp breaks into a moan before he can try to scramble away. Charles’ hands fly up from clutching at Erik’s shoulder and dive into his hair. Erik hums around the poor bud in his mouth and only releases it to press the flat of his tongue to it. Meanwhile, his hands seek new lands south, and they slip into Charles’ breeches without a struggle. Erik pinches and squeezes the cheeks of his ass while switching to his other nipple. Charles watches down his chest with misty eyes, unable to do anything except writhe and pant above Erik.

Erik’s thighs twitch under him, and it's the only warning Erik gives him. With Charles held securely in his arms, Erik gathers his strength and lifts them from the chair. Charles holds on tightly to his neck, and his trembling thighs clutch at Erik’s slim waistline. They don't go far, only stepping away from the chairs and coffee table. Erik kneels down to deposit Charles on the blood red rug under their feet, splaying him out like a virginal sacrifice. He cups Charles’ knees in his hands and forces Charles’ legs wide open. Erik towers above him with wild eyes and deep breaths moving his chest.

Licking his lips, Erik pants out, “Let me have you, Franny. There will be no pain, I promise you. Just let me have you.”

Without thinking, Charles shakes his head in refusal and sends his hair yanking free of his ribbon. Erik frowns down at him, passion doused a little. He leans away and snatches a bag Charles hadn't noticed tucked between the side table and the chair. He digs in it a moment before pulling out a photograph. The light is wrong, and Charles can't make out what is printed there. Erik stares at it and touches the tips of his fingers to the image, gentle as if caressing a lover. His eyes break away from the photo, and a mischievous smirk blooms on his lips.

“Would you like to see the photo of you that's been keeping me company for quite some time?”

Erik doesn't give Charles the chance to agree or not. He flips the photograph around and holds it close enough for Charles to see. It's him, sleeping in a pile of white blankets without a scrap of clothing on him. He's pink and fresh from a long bath, with bruises purpling him at his throat, his chest, and his hips. There's a light dusting of hair along his thighs, and his prick lies soft between his legs.  Charles squeezes his eyes shut against the memory, of how Herr Schmidt had held him down by his throat and fucked him until he'd lost consciousness. His Lady had left him in the “care” of Herr Schmidt for a week. He'd needed the bed rest after.

Charles lifts a shaking hand to push the offending photo away. Erik shows him mercy and tucks the paper back in his bag. He returns quickly, though, and huddles over Charles with their faces close. Charles blinks at him while turning his face away. Erik’s lips graze his cheek instead of his mouth, but Erik follows the cut of his high cheekbone to his ear. He pecks a sweet, poppy kiss where sideburns would grow, if Charles didn't take care to shave the hair off.

“I won't treat you like that disgusting animal Schmidt.” Erik’s hands tighten on his hips, where they'd returned after putting the photograph away. Charles whines at the pain, and Erik eases up his grip. “You would know only pleasure and safety with me, Franny. Please, give yourself to me.”

Charles stares at the dim ceiling through the water in his eyes. He circles his arms around Erik’s neck and holds on tightly. Between his legs, the hot press of Erik’s desire burns through his breeches and Erik’s dark trousers. He hasn't slept with anyone since Schmidt, has been too fussy and resisting for men to tolerate him long enough. Erik is mostly gentle with him, busying himself with light kisses down Charles’s throat and along his shoulder. Charles swallows his sadness and gives Erik’s short hair a light tug. It brings his head back up and gives Charles a perfect view of his eyes. They're much more open and generous than Schmidt’s vicious eyes. Charles resists biting his lower lip and nods, watching glee and excitement resurface on Erik’s face.

Erik picks at the button and ties of Charles’ breeches without another word. Charles helps by sliding the elastic of his suspenders off his shoulders and discarding his ruined shirt. He's happy to see that Erik hadn't torn the black suspenders in his haste, but the victory is hollow and fleeting. Charles grunts as Erik hauls his lower body up to yank the breeches off him. Erik casts them aside along with his own shirt, only pausing when his eyes catch on one of the last articles of clothing left on Charles’ body.

Baby pink to match the bra, the panties clinging to his hips are equally as lacy and useless. Charles flushes hotly under Erik’s gaze and turns his head away. Erik’s fingers are cool on his feverish skin when he caresses just above the lacy panties. Charles twitches under him, trying to shy away. A touch at a wet spot blossoming where the head of his prick is startles Charles. He tries even harder to twist away, but Erik rubs at the spot with two fingers. More moisture gushes out of him, and Charles throws an arm across his mouth to hide his face. Lips kiss down the center of his chest with a smirk twisted into them. A touch of Erik’s free hand at his arm has Charles flinching under him.

“Don't be shy, Francine,” Erik coos to him. “There's no shame in being wet for me already.”

Charles shakes his head under his arm and wishes desperately that he could block his ears from Erik’s soft, accented voice. Schmidt had been cruel, but Erik’s words curl around his heart and put a sour taste in his mouth. Most men don't talk to him like this—usually too busy panting through their exertion while fucking him. Occasionally, they’ll call him awful names while pounding into him, but they never recite anything that’s happening, never tease him with acts they might perform on him. But Erik doesn't know when to stop torturing him with sweet, vile things.

Erik sits back up, and cool air pours over him. His nipples perk up and tingle under Erik’s palms when he runs them up and down Charles’ skin. He chuckles somewhere above Charles and tickles his belly in between mean flicks to his nipples. Charles’ chest and stomach shake with laughter that quickly changes to hushed yelps when Erik flicks at him. Occasionally, Erik rocks against him, and Charles feels Erik’s cock through his pants again. Charles can only squirm under him while firmly keeping his arm over his face. He refuses to watch Erik do these horrible, sinful things to him.

“What would you like me to do, Franny?” The fingers on one hand drift down to the wet spot in his panties again. “Do you want me to suck you off? Or should I eat you out until you cry, coming on my tongue?”

Charles’ stomach flips and his heart rockets into his throat. It's difficult to breathe with Erik’s voice threatening him with terrible things while his hands pinch and squeeze him. His cock twitches under Erik’s attention and adds more wetness to the dark spot Erik’s already playing with. Fisting the hand near his face, Charles sucks in a breath to prepare for a moment of bravery. He can't stand to hear Erik say these filthy things at him anymore. Charles throws his arm out, off his face, and lunges for Erik. He traps the stunned man around his neck, and Charles smothers his twisted mouth with a sloppy kiss. Erik growls into his mouth as he sends them both back to the floor. The force of Erik’s shove nearly knocks the wind out of Charles. He has enough wits to wrap his legs around Erik’s waist and distract him from talking with harsh jerks of their crotches together. Erik moans in his mouth, and Charles counts it as a victory.

Erik pulls back enough to kiss his nose. He digs a hand out of Charles’ hair where he'd pulled and yanked on the long locks to summon something from his bag. It doesn't occur to Charles until that moment that Erik is powered and special like his Lady. He hadn't spared a thought to Erik’s talent. A metal container, not unlike the tea tins in the kitchen, fights its way out of Erik’s bag and bobs towards them. The lid is on much tighter than the tea tins, though. Erik twists it off with a flick of his hand, and the vapor from sweet perfume fills the small space between them. Erik sets the pot on the floor, and Charles finally gets a look inside. Oil shines up at him in the dim light cast by two lamps. Charles tears his eyes away and stares at some random spot over Erik’s shoulder. Everything in him shudders with anticipation.

Erik backs far away enough to disrobe. Charles doesn't watch him mechanically peel off his white undershirt and dark trousers. Naked skin settles between Charles’ thighs when he's done, leaving only Charles with clothes still on. Erik's wicked fingers slip into the sides of his panties, though, and gently urge them off his thighs and down his legs. Charles allows Erik to manhandle him to get the panties off. Erik leaves the knee high socks on him, dragging his fingers over Charles’ clothed shins as he scoots back up, between Charles’ pale thighs. Erik’s cock presses hard and hot against his own when Erik curls over him again.

Erik has a hand under him, propping his hips up, while sipping the other in oil. He glances away from his task to smile at Charles. Charles, however, only has eyes for the hand shining with slick. It drips down Erik’s long fingers, down to his palm and the back of his hand. The bones rise out of the flesh and catch the drops of oil like a damn, until enough collects at it overflows. Slick reaches Erik’s’ wrist before a pinch on his ass redirects Charles’ attention. Shaking his head to dislodge his nerves, Charles turns his eyes back on Erik. That soft smile is still there.

“Don’t worry about all this, my doll.” Erik flexes his wet hand. “I’d like to test the limits of your beautiful body, but certainly not for our first time. Are you ready for me?”

Charles’ arms fall to the rug beneath them without a noise. Fisting his hands by his head, Charles nods and closes his eyes. He’ll have to listen to Erik talk and the filthy noises his body will make, but at least he won’t have to look into those fathomless eyes at the same time. Erik jostles his body higher with his hand spread in the small of Charles’ back. Charles would be impressed by his show of strength, lifting him with one hand, if it wasn’t for the pressure against his hole. Erik shushes him while swirling two fingers around and around the tight furl of his opening. Charles tries to hold still and relax as best he can.

Erik wiggles between his legs until his knees are hoisted over Erik’s shoulders. Charles keeps his eyes closed through it all, concentrating on the pressure and tingling of having something inside him again. He can’t focus too closely on the sensation, lest he remember the last person to touch him this way. Erik hums as he dives the tips of his fingers in and out, never sinking too far inside him. The gentle back and forth relaxes Charles’ body, and he barely feels it when Erik pushes all the way into the knuckle. His whole body flinches when Erik spreads his fingers wide inside and skates like a knife off armor across his prostate.

“Ah!” Charles cries through his bitten lip. Erik repeats the motion again, just giving him a taste, and Charles lets out quiet, “ah, ah, ah’s” at every stroke.

“Such a pretty girl,” Erik murmurs against the inside of his knee. He slips a third finger in and watches Charles’ back arch up off the rug. “A perfect, little doll. All for me.”

Charles’ mouth hangs open without a sound spilling out of him. The harsh roar of his breaths help cover up the slick, wet sound Erik’s fingers make in him. It’s one less this he has to listen to, besides Erik’s sweet, meaningless praises. There’s a wet spot growing on his belly where his cock smears sticky precome. A flash of a memory, of Schmidt and his thin fingers spattered with come shoving them in Charles’ mouth and laughing at his struggles, passes through the eye of Charles’ mind. He goes cold inside and peels his eyes open to look at Erik. Erik watches him and notices the change. His fingers shift, as if to pull out, but Charles viciously shakes his head with a whine. He throws his arms out to Erik, asking for more skin, more contact with him.

“Of course, my darling,” Erik purrs at him. He drops Charles’ legs for them to fall to his waist, where Charles clings to him. “Anything for you,” he adds while nuzzling the side of Charles’ blushing face.

With his arms wrapped once again around Erik’s neck, Charles ruts his erection along the muscles of Erik’s stomach. Erik chuckles in his ears and pulls out with one last brush across his prostate. That caress leaves Charles sated while Erik gathers more oil in his hand. The squelch of it as he strokes himself adds more heat to Charles’ glowing cheeks. Erik presses quick, dry kisses just below his ear before he sits back up. The memory of Schmidt has passed, and Charles lets his arms fall away. With his clean hand, Erik touches the dark bruise of Charles’ lower lip, the sweat shining on his throat.

“Ready?”

Charles nods, sure that he is. Erik guides the head of his prick to where Charles is burning and still slick with oil. The pressure this time is so much more, even before Erik slips inside. Erik holds himself while challenging the tightness of Charles’ body. It burns when Charles first opens for him, but the tightness must be bliss for Erik. He freezes while barely inside at all and gasps above Charles. Finally, Charles can look all he wants without Erik’s intimidating eyes staring back. Some of his auburn hair sticks to his forehead having escaped the gel again. Charles isn’t the only one blushing, either, but Erik’s flush is splotchy and uneven on his cheeks. Erik sucks in a breath through his open mouth and feeds more of his cock into Charles. It’s too much all at once, and Charles digs his fingers into the muscles of Erik’s shoulders. He says nothing to Erik, though, and pants harshly as Erik continues pushing, pushing more until they’re flush against each other.

It’s a bit like Schmidt strangling him all over again. Erik wipes oil from his hand and caresses up and down Charles’ body, but he can’t breathe through the pain. Erik murmurs something filthy in his ear, but Charles doesn’t hear it. The pressure, oh the awful pressure inside him grounding him to reality. Perhaps if Erik had spent more time loosening him, or if Charles cared to do this to himself, it might not be this way. But it is, and the only thing Charles can do is claw at Erik’s strong back with his little nails. Erik kisses the sweat on his collarbones away as he tests some movement. Charles hisses, but Erik just shushes him. Pushing himself up with his hands flat along Charles’ sides, Erik’s hips shake as he pulls almost all the way out. The pain lessens now with just the tip of Erik inside him. Charles blinks his eyes open to clear the haze in them and stares at the ceiling. Slowly, Erik sinks back into him with a hum. The burn lessens as he does this, but it’s still too much.

Fingers chase some stray hairs sticking to Charles’ forehead, and Erik asks, “Franny, my doll, how does it feel?”

Charles chokes back a gasp and turns his face towards Erik’s palm. Seated deep within him once more, Erik changes his technique. His hips roll smoothly, pushing short, quick thrusts in and out of Charles. They grow in force until the soft  _ pap pap _ of skin on skin echoes off the walls. Erik’s thrusts scoot Charles up the rug, dragging the rough material against his back. Charles whines and tries to prop himself up on his hands. Erik quickly swoops down with grace and scoops Charles up in his arms. It gives Erik a new angle of attack, and he slams Charles’ shaking body down on his cock while jerking up at the same time. It’s taxing, but worth all the little noises that come spilling out from Charles’ mouth.

Clutching tightly to Erik’s shoulders, Charles cries, “Ah! N-nnn, aha!” He tries to muffle his moans by smothering his face into Erik’s neck, but Erik simply picks up the pace and fucks him harder.

“I love your little sounds, Franny,” Erik teases him while panting. “I want to hear all of them. Scream, if you want!”

Charles digs his nails into Erik’s back again and grits his teeth in an effort to stopper his noises. They embarrass him even more so that the slick sound of Erik thrusting into him. He’ll remember his own cries long after Erik has gone and forgotten about him. Charles traps his high-pitched gasps behind his teeth, especially when Erik’s cock drags against that bright spot inside him. He grows lightheaded while trying to hold everything in. When Erik worms a hand between their sweaty bodies and toys with the messy tip of his prick, Charles can’t help but fling his head back and scream just like Erik had wanted.

They crash back to the floor with Erik’s hands holding him down by his shoulders. Sitting up on his haunches, Erik pounds down in vicious rolls of his hips that bend Charles almost in half. Charles’ toes curl in the air as Erik impales him while also fisting his cock. It’s been too long since he’s had so much concentrated attention on him at once. Charles coughs through a breath while coming in Erik’s hand. His groan cuts in and out while he sucks in a breath. Erik moans above him, watching little drops of come spatter on Charles’ pale skin. A growl rips out of his throat, and Erik pulls out of Charles too quickly, too harshly. It aches being that empty where Erik had almost split him apart. Erik kneels over him with a fist working himself while he cradles the back of Charles’ head. The muscles below Erik’s navel jump and spasm when he comes, covering Charles’ passion with his own. In his post-orgasmic haze, Charles silently thanks Erik for not coming on his face. It’s not something he ever enjoys.

Erik plants a shaking, weak arm along Charles’ head when he stops coming. He’s strong enough to keep his heavy weight off Charles, but it’s a near thing. Erik’s body shudders with deep breaths for a hushed moment. Charles swallows hard under him, afraid to touch but wanting to be close, hoping Erik might hold him. A careful, timid hand on Erik’s bicep startles him, and Erik’s grey eyes fly open to stare at him. His mouth hangs open while he gathers enough wit to speak.

“Francine,” Erik sighs while stretching beside him. He kisses Charles’ hair and murmurs, “You darling, precious girl. How wonderful you are to me.”

Taking that as a sign, Charles rolls carefully onto his side and tucks his head under Erik’s chin. Erik’s laugh vibrates against Charles’ ear, and Erik loops an arm around him. Charles sighs against Erik’s chest when Erik pulls him close. He can pretend, now, that this is a normal thing that happens. That maybe he and Erik are together, and they always cuddle after a romp in the study. Most men want nothing to do with him at this point, but Erik drags his hand up and down Charles’ back while they calm down. Charles smoothes his cheek on Erik’s chest and hides a smile in his own hair. It is all a farce, but Erik is gentler, handsomer than most. It does nothing to Charles’ heart to pretend.

Charles falls into a heavy nap cocooned in the spice of Erik’s cologne and the afterglow of their orgasms. Sleeping on the floor is never a good idea, but he can’t possible detach himself from Erik’s warmth. He awakens only because that warmth has vanished sometime during his slumber. A blanket pulled from the sofa in the corner covers him, and his head is pillowed in the lap of another. Charles freezes at first, but his Lady’s humming reaches his ears and calms him. He wonders where Erik has gone, but the thought passes like a summer breeze through a window: brief and unremarkable.

“You did so well, sugar,” his Lady whispers while petting his hair. “Erik isn’t just an old friend. He helped us get out from under the thumb of that asinine Schmidt.” She twists a lock of his hair around her finger, over and over again until it assumes the shape of a curl. “I’m sorry that bastard hurt you so much. It was the only way I could get Erik to agree to… take care of our problem. He’s liked you for a long time.”

Charles shifts his head to look at her upside down.

“I owe Erik everything,” she says with a gentle scratch of his scalp. “But thankfully, it seems you enjoyed your time with him.”

Charles blushes at the thought that his Lady saw them together, heard the noises Erik had coaxed out of him. Some of what she’s said to him doesn’t make sense, though. Tonight had been the first time he’s met Erik or even seen him. There are pieces of the puzzle missing to him, such as exactly who Erik is and what trouble he and his Lady had been in. His week with that accursed Schmidt makes much more sense now. Charles remembers the photo Erik had flashed him, and he now understands the context. What better way to prove that Schmidt was a menace and needed “taking care of” than showing Erik the aftermath of what he’d done to Charles. Charles aches to understand all the unknowns kept from him. It isn’t important, though, if she doesn’t tell him.

She sets his head back to the floor and pushes herself to her feet. Charles rolls onto his side as she goes, intending to stand and follow her. His ass protests that idea, though, and Charles curls in on himself. Erik hadn’t said a farewell before leaving, but his presence remains. The skin of Charles’ belly itches something fierce as well as the sore spot between his cheeks. He’s filthy with come and oil, and he desperately wants a bath. There’s so much he doesn’t know, now, about his position with his Lady and Erik. Charles shakes himself from his thoughts and finds his Lady pausing at the door with her hand ready to open it.

“Be ready at any time for Erik in the future, Francine. I never leave a debt unpaid, and Erik wants you. You’ll be seeing more of him from now on.”

Charles lifts a hand to stop her, but his Lady slips out the door and closes it behind her. She leaves him alone with the memory of Erik still around him. Charles clutches at the blanket around his chest and huddles down in it. He sucks in a breath, the scent of Erik and sweat rushing into his nose. Charles hums and wipes at the blush lingering on his cheek. Something soft brushes against his face, and Charles glances down at his wrist. Tied there is a handkerchief, with the letters E.L. monogrammed into a corner. Charles isn’t sure what Erik’s last name is, but he bets every book upstairs this is Erik’s. Charles unties the cloth with only some difficulty and holds it to his nose. Sure enough, the scent of spices and the sea rise to his nose. Charles closes his eyes against the onset of melancholy and prays that maybe this one will be different.

 


	2. Erik II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-don as fuuuuuck. Also, please note the new tags added at the end. It's gonna be nastyyyyy. Comment below with how sad/angry/horny you are. I know what I'm about ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Charles nearly trips on a seam in the marble floor as he scuttles to Erik’s room. His Lady follows behind him, right on his heels, but with much more grace than he. Erik hates being kept waiting, but Charles **and** his Lady need to ready themselves for the party tonight, too. Charles is freshly showered and shaved, but he still has his hair, makeup, and clothes to contend with. Huffing outside the room Erik stays in when he’s here, Charles knocks and then steps out of his Lady’s way. The door opens without anyone touching it, and his Lady steps inside. Charles lingers in the bright hallway, crossing his fingers than Erik only needs to speak with her. The diamond ring on his finger burns for a split second, though, and Charles twists into the room. The door doesn’t shut behind him. 

“Francine, my darling,” Erik coos from his chair, where he’s still in underwear and an undershirt. “Just the beautiful lady I wanted to see.” 

“Don’t bother her right now, Erik,” his Lady chastises. “Francine has been excused from her duties to me tonight, but she still has to get ready, too. You’re wasting both our time.” 

Erik waves a hand from his bent over position. He’s pulling on a pair of socks and hooking garters about his shins. 

“Nonsense, I only need a moment of Francine’s time. A modicum, if you will.” 

His Lady’s face twists into a horrible frown, and Charles glues his sight to the floor. Erik sits up from his task with his hands flat on his thighs, smiling at her. His gaze shifts to Charles, but Charles won’t give him the satisfaction of making eye contact. If his Lady leaves him here, Erik will have all the time in the world to take him apart. Charles’s eyes drift from the floor over to his Lady’s feet, tucked away into white slippers. There’s a twitch in her calf muscle, and her hands are tight where they grip her hips. Risking calling attention to himself, Charles shifts from foot to foot behind her. Erik’s eyes were already on him, roaming over his pink and perfumed skin, but his Lady regards him over her shoulder, too. He shares a pleading thought with her, begging her to not give in to Erik’s wishes. He understands why she does, what they owe Erik, but he doesn’t want to hurt tonight. Erik can—and will—do whatever he wants when they return, but Charles wants to enjoy this night of socializing. He’d like to do it without a limp. 

His Lady sighs and throws her hands into the air. She turns to leave. “No bruises.” 

Charles whines softly to her as she goes, but his Lady slams the door shut behind her without turning back. Warmth blossoms along his side, and Charles turns around to find Erik beside him. The sheer, white top Charles wears solely to preserve his modesty soaks up Erik’s body heat. Still, he shivers under the weight of Erik’s hungry stare and dominating presence. It hadn’t always been this way, Charles reminds himself. Things had been different, better in the beginning. Now, he fears Erik’s attention almost as much as the memories of Schmidt. Charles locks that thought up tight and presses his back against the door, just to stop himself from shaking. Erik is more agreeable than Schmidt and dotes on him, Charles rationalizes. He tries to keep that logic in the forefront of his mind when Erik takes his shoulder in a warm, slim hand. 

“Franny, my darling Franny,” Erik murmurs into his hair. They aren’t quite touching yet, and Charles doesn’t make an attempt to close the distance between them. “Entertain me while I get ready? It doesn’t take me nearly as long as you lovely girls.” 

Nodding, Charles ducks away from his arms and busies himself with the record player hidden behind a white panel on the wall. Erik’s warmth follows him across the room and burns along his back. Erik’s hands are familiar and foreboding at his hips when Erik grabs him. Charles freezes with his fingers flicking through albums. Erik flattens them together, their shoulders all the way to the beginning curve of Charles’ ass making contact. Erik doesn’t grind into him like Charles expects. He chuckles, and the air whooshing out his nose tousles the top, dry layer of Charles’ hair. 

“No, no, my sweet, not the records. I was thinking something a bit more… Lively?” 

Erik’s hands slide from his hips to cradle the flat space between Charles’ navel and cock. Charles curls in on himself, trying to do what he isn’t sure. The idea to struggle and resist Erik crosses his mind, but an angry image of his Lady quickly follows it, and Charles gives that up. Erik chuckles behind him again and replaces his hands at Charles’ hips. He pulls Charles along and away from the records. They walk backwards with as much of their bodies in contact as Erik can maintain. Charles grimaces at the ridiculousness of it. He barely yells when Erik twists them around and shoves him to the mattress. Charles is quick to get his hands under him and push himself up, because he knows it's easier to squirm away if Erik isn’t already on top of him. Erik hasn’t moved from towering above him at the edge of the bed, though. He shuffles between Charles’ legs that stick off the edge of the bed and rolls him onto his front with a spread hand on his back. 

“No noises, lest your Lady hear us,” Erik warns him. 

Erik’s other hand tangles in the loose shorts he’d put on in a scramble to leave his room. He yanks them down Charles’ thighs, and they tangle around one of Charles’ ankles when he kicks. The hand on his back forces him deeper into the mattress, and Erik even lifts a leg to leverage himself above Charles. The mattress sinks under his weight, and his leg just forces Charles’ wider open. Erik's other hand quickly finds Charles’ ass and squeezes as much as he can with just the one. Charles squirms as Erik’s breath ghosts across the curve of his ass. 

“You were a good girl and cleaned yourself for me, didn't you?” 

Charles whines and presses his hot face into the sheets. Of course he did, Erik knows that! 

“Perfect.” 

Erik rips a shrill cry out of him when his tongue dives between his cheeks. Charles fights the hand holding him down, but Erik’s strength is absolute. He trembles and gasps breathlessly as Erik hums against his skin. Erik gives him just enough wet licks to get him interested before he leans back. The hand on his ass takes up the job, though, and Erik’s fingers slip where his tongue had been seconds ago. Charles is too dry and tight for him to do anything more than rub against his hole, but he chuckles while doing it anyway. His fingers press forward with intent. Charles shakes his head and stares over his shoulder, begging Erik not to. A whine squeals out of him. 

The sharp crack of Erik’s palm across his ass draws another whine from Charles. 

“No noises, pet. Your Lady herself said we haven't much time.” 

“Nnn,” Charles whimpers. He desperately wants to cry out ‘no,’ but his voice refuses to work. 

“If you can't keep quiet, I guess I'll have to stifle you.” 

There's always a buzz along Charles’ skin when Erik uses his powers nearby. This time is no exception as Erik calls metal to him. Charles blinks through misty eyes and watches a brick of something silver and heavy bob through the air. He recognizes the brick. Erik had teased him the last time he was here, threatening Charles with filthy ideas of fashioning the metal into phallic objects and seeing how long Charles could handle being fucked. He'd gotten as far as forming the type of monstrous thing he'd like to put in him before Charles had gotten Erik’s cock in his mouth, just to distract him. Now, Charles stares at the brick before trying to turn around and beg Erik with his hand, his mouth, anything to escape this experiment. 

“None of that.” Erik removes his insistent fingers just to slap Charles across the ass again. Charles cowers back to the bed, just to appease Erik. “It won't hurt, Franny. I promise.” 

Metal seems to melt without heat and detaches from the brick. Erik molds it with his power into something short and incredibly thick. Charles’ jaw aches at the size of it. It's warm when the tip of it bumps against Charles lips. Charles cranes his head away. More buzzing along his skin warns him that Erik has sculpted something else out of the brick. The scent of the oil Erik likes to use on him hits Charles’ nose before something equally as warm and lifeless as the faux shaft in front of him nudges his hole. Charles’ lips quiver as he fights back tears, but he opens his mouth as Erik had subtly requested. He's come to recognize the taste of steel, from countless other times Erik had put things in his mouth, and the dull bite of this shaft is definitely steel. It surges last his lips as if a body were attached to it, and it holds still just like Erik does when Charles kneels in front of him. Charles whines with his mouth full as more metal presses and rubs against his entrance. There's oil to slick its way, but Charles isn't ready, **knows** he's not prepared for this. 

 _Mercy, Erik,_ he cries in his head. _Please be merciful._  

The cry goes unheard, like it always does. Erik hums as he steps away from Charles’ bent form, taking his body heat with him. Charles shivers and relaxes his hips, keen on preserving his dignity a bit. The shaft in his mouth presses forward enough to choke him, though, and Charles scrambles to arch his ass back in the air. When he's giving Erik a proper view of himself, the steel relaxes in his mouth and pulls back. It allows Charles a moment to suck a desperate lungful of air through his nose before things move again. The steel in his mouth takes up a gentle rhythm, one Charles is already familiar with. His face burns at the thought, but Charles closes his eyes and imagines this is Erik instead of some lifeless hunk of metal. It's not even Erik he imagines, but some man who looks and sounds like Erik, but who loves him and touches him gently. The fantasy distracts him from the other shaft of steel pushing hard enough to penetrate him.

Even wielded by Erik’s power, the steel is much heavier and bossy than a flesh and blood cock. Charles jumps hard enough to gag himself on its brother in his mouth. Clothes rustle behind him accompanied by Erik’s rich chuckle. He forces the steel deeper despite Charles’ clenching and squirming. Charles has known Erik long enough, been around to hear him talk about his power to know Erik can feel inside him. It’s not as fine through the steel as skin-on-skin is, but Charles’ unprepared tightness can’t possibly escape Erik. He just continues to hum and dress while forcing Charles open. 

Charles’ knees ache as he's rocked between the two shafts. The one in his mouth will push and push until he's suffocating, forcing him to either choke or take the steel in his ass deeper. Erik’s power makes sure that he's constantly moving on both of them. Charles whines when he can, hoping his noises either appease Erik’s cruelty streak or key Erik into his pain. The touch of a hand on his ass stills Charles rocking, and the steel takes to thrusting into him at the same time. It's too much, and when Erik’s power expands the shaft stretching his hole, Charles hits the breaking point. 

His teeth click and scrape the steel in his mouth as he's stretched even wider. Something trickles down his inner thigh. Charles sucks in a breath and tastes iron, and Erik tuts softly at him while squeezing a cheek. 

“Franny, you've just had a bath, you silly thing. You're getting everything dirty again.” 

The steel throbbing and growing inside him shrinks just as suddenly as Erik has made it grow. It slips from him and plops to the bed with a dull _thwap._ Erik’s fingers seek out where he's burning and loose, sinking a finger into him without Charles really feeling it. He relaxes his jaw when the shaft in his mouth shifts to pull out. Spit dangles from Charles’ lips as he pants heavily. The wrinkled, white sheets below him fill his vision, but it’s blurry at the edges with tears. His cheeks are wet with them, and they cool as Erik snags his hips and flips him over. It knocks the wind out of Charles’ mouth, and he stares up at Erik’s saccharine smile. He lets Charles go long enough to shove his trousers open and down a bit. His cock isn't anything compared to the awful thing he's made to fuck Charles with just moments before, but Charles feels him anyway when he plunges in with one thrust. 

Erik throws his head back and groans, “My little Doll. So loose and ready.” 

Charles bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. Erik’s hips are rougher in their strokes than his power had been. Charles fists his hands into the sheets for something to hold on to. As loose as he is, everything between his legs still burns. It's worse when Erik snaps his hips and jerks Charles up the bed. His hole is sore and buzzing where Erik spears him open. Charles chokes back another cry when Erik holds still in him as deep as he can go. A hand taps at his face in light slaps, and Charles peels his teary eyes open to blink up at Erik’s sweaty face. Charles winces and tries to turn his face away, but Erik just grabs him by the jaw and forces him to stay still. 

“I've never had you this open before, my dear.” His eyes flash to the steel, now cold from the lack of power, that has rolled to the divot formed by Charles’ body. It floats from the bed at a small surge of Erik’s power and hovers high enough for Charles to see it. “Do you think both would fit?” 

Charles’ mouth drops open despite Erik’s grip, and he shakes his head violently enough to toss his hair around. Charles struggles enough to force Erik out of his body, but Erik holds him down and stands between his kicking legs soon again. Erik bends over Charles as he flinches away and tries to curl up. They're touching from their hips to their chests, and Erik shushes him with sweet whispers into his hair. Every movement ruts his prick between Charles’ legs where his own cock is traitorously half hard. Lube and blood are tacky between his cheeks, and he knows some of it has probably smeared on the sheets. His Lady will know. The maids will know. Erik’s lips ghost over his blood-hot cheek, and Charles turns away with a whimper 

“Shhh, my little Doll, my love. Don't fret, I know we can make them fit together. Won't you try? For me?” 

The moment Charles worms his hands between their chests to push him away, Erik sags as a dead weight on top of him. Gasping under him, Charles wiggles away far enough to look at Erik’s face. He's frozen with his eyes wide open, but unseeing. Charles jostles him more, enough to sit up a bit and see over his shoulder. He regrets the motion when his lower body lights up in pain. Charles scoots out from under Erik’s frozen body and draws his knees to his chest. In the doorway, someone clears their throat. 

His Lady stands there, already dressed for the party. Her face betrays nothing. She's perfect and cold as the diamond in his ring, and he doesn't detect fury or anything else in her expression. Charles whines under the power of her stare. It brings her out of whatever thought she'd had, and she sweeps into the room like a swan landing on a lake. She sneers at Erik’s form and nudges him farther away with a foot on his thigh. He leans more and more to the side until he falls from the bed like a sack of vegetables. Charles tears his eyes away from everything and stares at his shaking hands cupping his knees. His Lady kneels down to eye level with him and waits for him to look at her. 

“I've taken **that** idea from his head,” she says coolly to him. She lifts a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. In her other hand, she holds a wet washcloth and offers it to him. “Clean yourself up before I let him go. He'll remember everything I left untouched. Do you understand, Francine?” 

He nods and wipes tears and drool from his face. She flashes him a quick, empty smile before rising again. She leaves without another word and closes the door behind her. He only reaches between his legs, wincing, when he's sure she won't return. Charles stifles a pained cry between his teeth as he prods gently at his hole. The cloth comes away stained bright red. He'd reach inside to feel for any tears, but there's not enough time. The red smear tarnishing the washcloth doesn't shock him. It only furthers the numb ache taking over in his heart. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Charles balls the cloth in his hand and throws it towards the room’s en suite. He holds his legs tightly to his chest and waits for Erik to come back. 

The silence sets into the room briefly, but it washes away as Erik stirs on the floor. His eyes are empty as he stands, still under his Lady’s influence. Beside him on the bed, the steel coalesces back into a brick and floats to the floor. Charles recognizes the moment she leaves Erik, when Erik’s eyes focus and he shakes his head to clear the fog. His Lady has controlled him before, too. He's familiar with the difficulty of reconnecting your thoughts to your body. Erik glances down at him in brief confusion before the sweet smile he only shows “Francine” bursts onto his face.

He reaches for Charles with open hands, and Charles prides himself on not flinching away. Erik draws him close and presses short, meaningless kisses to his face. He hums, content, and steps away after he's had his fill. 

“My darling Francine, thank you for that. You were wonderful, as always.” 

Charles plays along and nods with an unsteady smile. Erik glances at the metal on the floor and gestures at it with a flick of his hand. Pieces of it stretch and cut off like the first time, but form two, perfect spheres in his palms. They're connected with a chain that’s formed with links so small and tight that Charles can't see the spaces. Charles glances from them to Erik’s pleased grin. Everything between his legs clenched painfully at the unknown, the promise in Erik’s smile. He must perform for Erik and his Lady, but he's **tired**. Charles sighs and bows his head, wishing for once things could be painless and easy. 

“Indulge me in a fantasy I've had ever since we met, my dear? There will be so many mutants who will want to dance with you, but I want to make sure you feel me everywhere you go.” 

Erik’s empty hand stretches out to Charles’ shoulder and makes to push him back to the bed. Boneless and numb, Charles falls back with only the slightest bit of strength from Erik. His head turns to the side, and he stares at the smooth, white walls of the guest room. Erik cups a hand under his knee to draw it up and to his chest, exposing him. Charles’ face crumples and he swallows a sob. The curve of one of the spheres touches his hole, where he's still loose and wet with oil. Erik shushes him and guides the sphere past his muscles with his fingers. Charles jumps when it slips in, barely moves at all when it's joined by the second. The extremely fine chain connecting them through the middle continues out the other side of the second sphere, and it dangles frigidly down his crack until his body heat warms it. Erik chuckles in his ear and sends them vibrating against his walls. Charles clenches at the pain of something being inside him again and gnaws at his lower lip. 

“You're perfect, my little Doll.” Erik pets his hair and stands, letting cool air rush in to take his place. “My perfect lady.” 

Erik’s hands find his and pull him to stand on trembling legs. A foal would do a better job standing than he does right now. He leans heavily against Erik as the spheres shift and caress everywhere he's sensitive inside. The chain left outside him swings and bumps his inner thigh. Charles hides his face in Erik’s clean shirt and shivers when Erik’s arms come up to hold him. Charles’ arms are squashed between them, and Charles clutches at Erik’s shirt. He shakes and whines until Erik pets at his hair and calms him down. Walking is awkward with the ache and emptiness at his hole, but made worse by the spheres Erik controls. Charles clenches to hold them still, and Erik laughs at him for his attempt. 

“I'll see you once we’re leaving, my sweet.” Erik hands him his little shorts back from the floor and ushers him to the door. “I know you'll look as breathtaking as always.” 

Charles deals with the playful shift and buzzing of the steel in him all through his rituals. He has to wipe off lip gloss and start again when Erik rubs the damn balls against his prostate, again and again until he's bent gasping over the vanity in his room and clawing at the wood. Thankfully, he doesn't chip a nail on it. He's perfumed, pinned, and stuffed into his clothes faster than he can think and standing outside his Lady’s room to wait for her. Everything had passed in a blur, and he doesn't quite remember walking from his room to hers. He smoothes his hands down is light blue gown, with tulle pillowing up under the main skirt to give him the look of a fairytale princess. He's happy with it, would be happier if not for Erik’s omnipresent shadow casting him into the dark. 

The white door before him cracking open stirs Charles out of his melancholy. His Lady lifts his chin and nods at him when she emerges from her room as if nothing is amiss. Charles gives her a fake, hollow smile that will satisfy. He remains a few steps behind her as they meet Erik for the ride there. He'll sit beside her, thank the gods, but will still have to contend with Erik’s steel in him. And of course, Erik takes great care to keep him twitching and blushing madly during the whole ride. It can't slip his Lady’s mind, his discomfort, and she grips his hand too hard in hers when they arrive. She lets his hand slip from hers when Erik takes his arm to pull him in another direction. Her mind whispers to him as she disappears into the crowd. It's softer than he's ever heard or felt from her before. 

 _Be well, Francine. Protect yourself._  

Her control slips a bit, and he catches a snippet of himself through her eyes: blood smeared between his cheeks and staring at her, terrified. Superimposed over his tired face is an image of him younger and happier, probably from when they were children. Anger not his own tints the memory red before his Lady wrangles everything back and leaves him with Erik. He stares at where she'd been, confused and oddly touched. Erik pulls gently on his arm, and Charles turns his head to gaze up at him. A fragile smile ticks up the edges of Charles’ lips, and Erik returns the expression. The steel hidden inside him shifts.

“Shall we dance?” 

Charles’ rearing and manners demand he agree, so he nods while Erik leads him to the dance floor. Ladies and Gentlemen appraise him like a cut of meat in a market stall. Charles frowns at Erik’s chest when they position their hands accordingly—holding hands while Erik’s other cradles Charles’ waist and Charles grasps Erik’s upper arm. It’s a waltz, poppy with violins and happy. Mutants and their Dolls all step in time to the one, two-three beat of the music. Charles’ expression doesn’t improve, and Erik squeezes the hand he holds. Charles falters when the subtle flick of Erik’s fingers excites the steel to vibrate again. Charles bites back a gasp as Erik leads them around and around in perfect, square formation. The music and whispers of people mix into an incoherent roar in Charles’ ears. The music crescendos at the end, and Erik breaks the rules by bending him into a dip. Charles’ hair dangles back, and his collarbones are left exposed to anyone watching them. Everyone watches them, Charles notices despite seeing everyone upside down. Charles whines to Erik, and Erik shows him mercy by bringing them back up. 

Charles wrestles his hands and body free as soon as he’s able. He stomps towards the edge of dancing couples, but a man stops him with a hand on him and a smile. Charles doesn’t recognize him, but he asks to dance. Betraying his anger, Charles’ eyes flash to Erik, who has taken another dance partner. His expression is as smooth as the steel he controls. However, he catches Charles’ eyes across the floor. A towering thundercloud develops along his brow, and it sends a shiver down Charles’ spine. The soft smile slips a bit from man’s face, but Charles is quick to give his own, glowing grin and take the offered hand. Charles’ skin buzzes with Erik’s power radiating out of him. He suffers for his insolence as Erik sets the spheres in him into an excited frenzy. Charles misses steps and even trips over his partner’s feet. The man laughs at him and asks if he’s had too much to drink already. Charles just grits his teeth and challenges Erik’s jealousy blow for blow. The dance ends, and Charles risks everything on offering his gloved hand for the man to kiss. He does so, and Charles almost crashes to the floor under Erik’s ire. 

He gasps something out—certainly not words—and flees the room. Many heads turn to watch him go, and the gossiping whispers take up arms again. None of it matters to Charles as he searches for the nearest restroom. His stomach heaves as if he needs to be sick, but he knows it’s just a reaction from so much stimulation for so long. Charles slams against a bathroom door and takes to the first stall that’s open without checking for other occupants. The door is barely locked with him inside before he has the glove of his right hand between his teeth. He wrestles it off while picking at the hem of it with his left. Hand free, he collects the blue skirts of his dress up from his legs. He gathers the material together and tucks it under his arms. Legs free of tulle and satin, Charles spreads them awkwardly on the slippery tiles of the floor. He grunts with the effort to balance himself and hold the damn dress up. Finally he gets a hand between his legs, snags hold of the chain dangling out of him, and pulls. 

“Nnn, hah,” he pants with his face almost pressed into the stall door. 

He’s sore and on fire where the spheres shift inside him. He’s not beyond Erik’s reach, not by a long shot, but they’ve stopped vibrating against his walls. Now, they shift purely out of momentum from the rest of his body. Charles firms his wide stance and pulls again on the chain. Sweat gathers behind his knees and on the back of his neck as he struggles. The pressure inside him has lowered to just behind his hole. It should be easy at this point, but every muscle down there is weak and numb. Even a gentle graze of his fingers trying to push in to help ease the way sets his nerves ablaze. Charles whines behind his bitten lip and throws his head to the ceiling. He blinks back frustrated, angry tears. 

 _Please_ , he begs in his mind. _I just want this to stop. I’ll do anything, just please, **please**!_  

Somehow, squirming and clenching his lower body, Charles forces the first sphere from his hole.

“Ah!” 

Oil from before makes his grip slippery and tricky to maintain. Charles braces his arm against the stall door and crouches lower. He has to twist in the dress to reach back and under himself, but he threatens to send the skirts tumbling down and in the way. Charles pinches his eyes shut and sucks in a desperate breath. His heart beats wildly in his chest. The worry of Erik storming into the bathroom and discovering him chases its tail in his mind until Charles is breathless with it. He sucks in another breath. Sphere heavy and hot in his hand, Charles twists the chain connecting them around his fingers. Another breath, another shift in his stance to prepare sucks energy out of him. His body finally, finally gives and lets the last steel ball slip from him. Charles pays the contraption no mind as it crashes to the floor with an awful sound. 

He lets loose a sob against his arm before the huff of annoyed breath reaches his ears. 

Charles freezes against the door as he strains to hear the breathing again. There’s grumbling this time, and a toilet farther down the line flushes. Charles covers his mouth with his clean hand. He struggles to keep the dress up and high so as to not give away his status. Anyone looking under the stall walls would see Erik’s horrible toy on the floor, but they wouldn’t have to know he’s a Doll. Charles fights sobs and tears as he cowers against the door and hopes the other partygoer will just leave without a word. He tries to quiet his breaths and hiccups as best he can when the occupied stall down the row opens. 

Shoes click on the floor as someone adjusts their clothes and walks out. Rather than head for the sink like a civilized person would, the stranger wanders down the row. His shoes and shadow stop outside, on the other side of the door. Weak from straining, Charles’ legs tremble where he stands. Charles holds his breath as the man sighs. The scent of him fights the perfumed, distantly vinegar smell of the bathroom: cigar smoke and dark cologne. It’s so vastly different from the clean and metallic air that Erik carries around. It calms some of Charles’ panic until a knock on the door startles him. He almost drops the skirt of his dress.   

“Everything, uh, all right in there?” 

Foolishly, Charles nods at first. He shakes his head at himself, bewildered at his knee-jerk reaction, and hums positively. He’s proud of himself for keeping any notes of sadness or tears out of his little hum. Charles presses his forehead to the stall door and silently begs the man to go away. He’s thankful for the concern, but most of all he needs to be alone. Erik is still out there, still expecting him to dance and show off on his arm as the pretty Doll he is. Charles needs time to center himself and calm his nerves, and he can’t do it with this stranger lingering about. Again, he pleads in his head for the stranger to depart. 

The man huffs a breath out once more and twists away from the stall. A sink comes on, and he washes his hands. Charles doesn’t relax against the door. He won’t until he’s alone. Washing and drying done, the man’s shadow falls across the floor as he nears the exit. He pauses with the door still shut, though. His voice echoes, gruff but friendly in a way Charles isn’t used to. Friendliness towards him is usually ulterior at best, but his soft heart can’t help but appreciate the kindness.

“Take care, I guess.” 

Charles’ voice breaks as he hums. The stranger chuckles for a second before he finally exits the bathroom. Charles sags against the door and feels safe to pull his hand away from his mouth. The restroom is deserted this time, he's sure. Still, when he opens the stall door, he peeks around it to check for others. The music from the dance floor seeps in under the bathroom door and twinkles along the tile floor and walls. The echo is ghostly and disjointed, but Charles is glad for something other than silence. His shoes click on the floor as he pinches the chain of Erik’s steel between his thumb and index finger and carries it to the trash. He doesn't bat an eyelash at tossing it straight in the bin. There's oil and darker flecks of blood on his hand. Charles’ mouth twists in distaste at it. Whipping off his other glove using his thigh and sometimes his teeth, Charles thoroughly washes his hands until they're pink. The ring Erik had given him sits shining and perfect on the counter. Charles eyes it while drying his hands with a surprisingly thick and soft paper towel. Something else on the counter catches his eyes, too. 

Far from the splash range of the sink, a business card sits innocently. Charles hesitates to take it. He can't recall it being there when he stormed into the bathroom. Charles ducks his head to make absolutely sure that he's alone. The thought crosses his mind that maybe the stranger from earlier had left it. For what, Charles isn't sure. His bare fingers catch the smooth edge of the card and lift it up to read. It's nothing fancy, just a plain, white card with innocuous black font.   
  


_James Howlett_

_Bodyguard_

 

There's a phone number and email address at the bottom, too. Charles glances at the bathroom door before turning the card over. Apparently, Mr. Howlett had left him a message as well. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting and a sloppy, blue pen. 

 _For emergencies_  

Charles resists the grin bending his lips into something happy and excited. He holds the business card to the bare skin of his chest above his neckline. Voices call from just on the other side of the door, and it spooks Charles into action. Without pockets or a little clutch, he has nowhere proper to store the business card. He tilts his head to stare down at his flat chest and the pointless bra he knows is there. It's not digging into him, thank the gods, but it's an uncomfortable restriction around his chest. Charles picks at the neckline of his dress and slips the business card into the bra, where the band hugs him tightly. His sweat might ruin it a bit, so he takes care to face the front of it away from his skin. Charles whips his gloves back on after returning Erik’s ring to its rightful finger. Charles thinks for half a second about throwing it in the bin, too, but he shakes his head. Lifting his chin, Charles checks himself in the mirror before leaving. He bumps chest first into Erik almost immediately. 

“My little Doll, where did you go?” Erik holds the puffy material about his shoulders tightly in his hands. Charles shrugs him off, but Erik won't be deterred. He grabs Charles again and shakes him a bit. “Please don't run away like that. What if someone had taken you?” 

Charles stares at their feet, but internally he rolls his eyes. No one in their right mind would try to take him. His Lady is well known in the upper circles of mutantkind, and they all recognize him no matter what. They also all know exactly what his Lady would do to them when she found them. Charles feigns remorse and nods with his bottom lip out a bit. Erik sighs and pulls him against his chest, trapping Charles in his arms. His hands are light on Charles’ back for a split second before they nearly claw at him. Erik yanks him back and stares at his face with the thundercloud reforming in his eyes. 

“Young Lady, what have you done with my steel?” 

Charles schools his face and lifts his chin in a challenge. He doesn’t lift his chin for long, though, before Erik rears a hand back and slaps him across the face. The _pop!_ of skin striking skin alerts everyone to the drama within hearing distance. A few mutants nearby pause their conversation, and their Dolls cower at the public punishment. The rest all cover their gossiping mouths with a hand and whisper fiercely to each other. Charles, to his credit, only stumbles a bit before catching himself. Erik’s strength is enough to knock Charles’ hair loose from the pretty knot he’d tied it into. It doesn’t quite unravel from his favorite ribbon, but it does collapse onto the back of his neck. That doesn’t concern him, what with the throbbing agony that is the left side of his face. Under the band of his bra, Mr. Howlett’s business card seems to burn into his skin. Charles entertains the idea of finding the man and finally watching someone put Erik in his place. The viciousness and bloodthirsty nature of the fantasy shocks Charles. He tries to dive around Erik, to run to some place to be alone and nurse his cheek, but Erik catches him around his upper arms. 

Smiling humorously to their audience, Erik shrugs and says, “Give a Doll an inch and she’ll gut you with it.” 

That gets a bubbly murmur out of everyone, and most turn away to continue their conversations. A few Dolls shoot him pitying glances, but they shun him just like their Ladies and Gentlemen. Without the spotlight on them, Erik’s face falls as he glares down at Charles. His hands pinch the soft skin of Charles’ upper arms, and he knows he’ll bruise there. He’ll face more consequences once they return to his Lady’s home. Charles’ breathing ratchets up as his bravery abandons him to the black, cold waters of panic. His vision tunnels, and he shivers under Erik’s penetrating stare. Charles flinches when Erik lets him go only to tilt his quivering chin up. His red cheek protests, but Charles bites back any complaints. He’s already dug the hole deep enough. 

“We should step outside and get some fresh air.” Erik’s eyes narrow at him. “Something in here doesn’t quite agree with you. That or you’ve lost you manners and sense.” 

Charles shakes his head, unsure of what exactly he’s saying “no” to. Erik drops his hand from his chin and puts on a razor-thin smile. Still holding Charles by one arm, Erik practically drags him to the French doors that lead to the expansive garden outside. Charles had peeked at it through the windows before the sun had set when they’d arrived. The scent of the sea had carried on the evening wind, and he’d been insatiably curious to see the ocean. Now, as Erik throws a door open and wrestles Charles away from prying eyes and help, Charles has no thoughts of the sea. The storm threatening to break in Erik’s eyes as he shoves him into an alcove and traps him frightens all happy thoughts from Charles’ mind. He stares up at Erik’s grey eyes and fists his hands in Erik’s white shirt. Erik only boxes him tighter while kicking his feet apart, to get between his legs. 

“Francine, my precious girl, please be still.” Erik’s hands drop to the skirt of his dress and begins pulling it up. “Unless you want someone to see us…”


	3. Logan I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus enters Logan, whom is only a man trying to do good ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ But dat booty just too fine! I know you're excited to see what happens next, how Logan will get involved in Charles and what exactly happens with the relationship between Charles and Erik, bUT telling me in the comment section is nice, too ; D

Anxious to step outside and away from the high life clucking around him like hens, Logan flicks his lighter open and closed against his thigh. Even with this many mutants and their human Dolls running around, Logan holds fast to the idea that the Summers brothers could have handled it on their own. With a final snap of his lighter, Logan pockets the old thing and turns from his post. The sniffling, sobbing boy in the bathroom has put his stomach to shreds, and he desperately needs air and a smoke. Logan waves a hand at Darwin across the stuffy ballroom and dips outside. Cool, fall air whips at his face and suit. Grumbling, Logan makes sure the door is actually shut before wandering away from it. If any of the Richy Riches inside saw him smoking a cigar so close to a door, it might be a problem. At least out here he can distance himself from this stomach-turning display of power and dysphoria. A few of those Dolls had bruises on their faces, barely covered with makeup. Logan sighs after lighting up and rubs at his face with one hand. It isn’t any easier to watch despite his ever-increasing years. 

Another door opens farther down the building, and the scuffling of shoes draws Logan out of his reminiscing. Two people come stumbling out a side door, upwind of Logan. Frowning at the pair, Logan slips into an alcove and sniffs the passing breeze. The tang of fear mixed with arousal and then even more arousal floats by him. The scents drift to him quickly, and Logan immediately picks out the tang of male interest from both. Logan glares from his hiding place as two shadows struggle with one another. He clenches a fist at his side, ready to break them apart. He hesitates once they still, with one man’s back pressed into the wall of a similar alcove while the other boxes him in.  The shifting and rustling of clothing reaches Logan’s sensitive ears at the same moment a whimper does. 

“Francine, my precious girl, please be still,” an accented voice whispers, almost lovingly. “Unless you want someone to see us…” 

Logan rolls his eyes and lowers his fist at that. He taps the lit end of his cigar against the stucco of the building, making sure no one will see the red cherry in the dark. Tiny gasps and more clothes rustling catches Logan’s ears. Around the corner, he peers through the shadows cast between dim lights perched throughout the patio. Mostly concealed by a broad back, a pretty, young thing thrashes in the hold of the one who’d spoken. He’s the one reeking of fear and whimpering softly. His hands—one gloved and the other bare—claw and scramble at the broad back covering him. There’s a baby blue dress shoved up around his waist while his partner stands flush between his legs. The golden buckles on the frightened one’s shoes gleam in the low light as his legs are hoisted higher and higher. The only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground is the gentleman pinning him. Logan shivers while shaking the scent of them from his nose. He recognizes a Doll for what it is, and those shoes along with that tiny voice make his stomach flip a few times. It’s the boy from the restroom. 

He watches as the aggressor bites and sucks at the Doll’s neck. He tries to stifle himself, but a nasty jerk of hips between his thighs always seems to draw a gasp out of him. Logan blinks when the boy scratches and pinches anywhere he can reach, finally fighting back. His partner grumbles and releases his legs after a hard yank on his ears. He stumbles away with a hand covering the abused lobe and fists his other hand at his side. The Doll fixes the length of his dress around his legs to preserve his dignity and pushes loose strands of hair out of his face. He says nothing to the other, but stares at him with wide, watery eyes. They beg him to stop, and Logan’s claws itch between his knuckles at the sight. 

“That was rather nasty of you, Franny,” the tall one in the suit sneers. “I have half a mind to tell your Lady about this, rather than punish you myself.” 

That puts a damper on Francine’s burst of bravery. He cowers and hugs himself while shaking his head. Still, he doesn’t speak. Logan’s stomach drops at the growled threat. He’s of course seen this kind of thing before, Dolls loaned out as payment for favors. Judging by how familiar they are, Logan assumes this loan period has gone on for quite some time. And despite Francine’s boyish looks and delicate face, there’s a solid chance he’s of age. It’s a silver lining to a shitty situation, and Logan’s heart goes out to him. The tall brute closes in on Francine again, but this time the poor boy doesn’t cower. Logan peers through the darkness, interested in what he has planned. 

“Be a good girl and be still for me, then.” 

Logan takes a step out of his alcove, ready to stop whatever this is, but that’s as far as he gets. Francine rears his bare hand up and backhands his friend in the face. His aim is sloppy, though, and he only manages to catch the fellow directly in his mouth. Logan’s own jaw hangs open at the show of violence. It drops a bit more open when he catches a whiff of blood on the air. The taller man reaches for his mouth. Through the shadows, Logan sees the deep cut just under his nose, shredding his upper lip vertically. They both stare at the Doll with similar yet separate expressions: Logan’s proud and the other man’s furious. He reaches for Francine again, but the Doll simply raises his hand once more. Light glints off a diamond ring on his hand, now speckled with blood. Everyone freezes and waits for someone else to make a move.

Huffing and grumbling something incoherent, the tall man holds a hand to his bloodied face and whips around, stalking back inside. The patio floods with light for a moment while he yanks a door open, but they’re soon plunged back into darkness when he slams the door shut. Logan blinks at Francine as he covers his mouth with his bloody hand. He stares at the spot his companion had been before twisting away and fleeing into the expansive garden beyond the patio. His hair has fallen out of its ribbon during the struggle, and it flows behind him like a veil. Logan strains to hear the clip of his little shoes as he runs. 

“Shit,” Logan whispers as he returns to the door he had come from. 

Poking his head inside, Logan waves a hand at Darwin, urging him forward. Darwin crosses the room as if there’s no one there, reaching Logan in no time. 

“Cover me a bit longer. One of the, uh… patrons asked for help with something.” 

“No problem.” Darwin’s intelligent eyes turn to the darkness beyond Logan’s head. “You can handle it.”

“No shit.”

Logan closes the door and takes off into the garden. He tracks the scent of blood twisting and turning through the walkways. His annoying dress shoes thump along cobblestones, but other than that, he’s silent. The spike of iron leads him all the way to the back of the garden, where the land drops sharply down. It’s gated here with quite a few lights to prevent people from injuring themselves. Logan knows that below the sheer drop is the sea, which crashes against the earth with a salty spray. He finds the trembling, little Doll clutching the metal gate and leaning his upper body over it. Tears run silently down his face, dragging makeup with them. Francine sighs into the wind and ducks his head down, out of the light.

"You won’t die, you know,” Logan says without warning. His voice startles the Doll, enough for the young man to back away from the edge. “We’re not up high enough.”

Francine blinks at him and shoves tears away with the heel of his hand. The other hand, fisted at his side, is gloved and spotless. It’s the bloody hand that wipes at his face.

“Don’t freak out.” Logan holds up his hands, palms out. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Francine sniffs and swallows hard where he stands. He turns fully towards Logan, with eyes wide and edging on frightened. Logan smells his fear clear as day and takes a step back. A soft whine, sad and injured, squeaks from the Doll’s throat. He shuffles towards Logan, with his shoulders bunched high and tight. Logan rubs the back of his neck with a rough hand and glances around, hoping to see Francine’s Lady or someone the Doll recognizes walking up. Anyone else could handle this situation better than him. They’re alone in this part of the garden, though. They’re alone with the cluster of lights and sway of the sea. 

Shoes scuffing on the cobblestones draws Logan’s eyes back to the Doll. He shivers in the hard wind that blows here, and his dress offers little for warmth. Logan sighs to the sky and waves a hand towards himself. 

“Come here. I’m not gonna do anything.” He chuckles and adds, “I’m not an animal.” 

That gets him a tiny smile on that tear-streaked face. The Doll closes the distance between them, accepting Logan’s promise. Francine offers Logan his gloved hand when he’s close enough, and Logan spies something hidden along his wrist. He recognizes the Doll’s motion for what it is, an offering for Logan to read his identification tag. Staring at Francine until he nods, Logan takes his delicate arm in hand and pulls up his glove. Francine shiver when Logan’s work-worn fingers touch the soft skin of his wrist. A silver chain wraps around the bones, and a name is etched into a plate attached to the ends of the chain. Logan flips it over and reads it. 

 _Emma Frost_ and on the other side _Francine_  

“Hmm,” Logan hums. “Your name is Francine, huh?” 

The Doll nods and watches him under a flop of hair that’s separated from the rest. His hair falls behind his back, stopping somewhere near his shoulder blades. It flutters when the wind picks it up, and the scent that drifts off it reminds Logan of apples and summer. Francine tucks a lock behind his ear and waits until Logan releases his hand. Logan does so with much reluctance, saving every drag of their skin as he pulls away. Logan thumbs at his nose while Francine fixes his glove back up his arm. Something isn’t settling right in Logan’s stomach, and he refuses to admit it’s any kind of attraction to the pretty boy in front of him. 

“I don’t believe it,” Logan grumbles. “Plenty of mutants rename their Dolls when they get you guys. ‘Francine’ can’t possibly be your name.” He waves a hand up and down Francine’s body. “She probably picked out these clothes for you to wear, too. Unless you like this shit, which I guess you might. Never understood why they churn you humans out to look and act like little girls, no matter what you’ve got downstairs and how you feel about yourself.” 

Francine’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. The left side of his face is a bit redder than the rest, and Logan suspects that cheek has seen a palm or two tonight. Maybe that had been the reason he’d cried in the restroom. It doesn’t explain the scent of blood that had seeped into the bathroom air, though. Logan offers Francine a grin to help further the easy air between them. As pretty as Francine is and as weak a man as Logan knows himself to be, he won’t touch the little thing without permission. Francine’s joy slips a bit from his face, and he dips his head around to glance behind Logan. Logan does so too, finding no one there. He watches Francine turn his head to listen and look for anyone else around. 

“We’re alone, Princess,” he chuckles. “No one but me here.” 

Francine bites his lip and shakes his head ‘no,’ once, in reference to Logan’s earlier question. Logan nods and withholds a triumphant snort. Eyes the color of the sea below them sparkle and shine at him under long lashes. The lights behind Francine shadow his face, making him seem even younger than he is. Francine holds out his hand again after a moment of staring, this time the bloody one. Logan reaches for him, and Francine takes his thick wrist in hand and holds it. His fingers are short, like Logan’s, but soft and mostly clean. The glove on his other hand is silky and white when he begins to write on Logan’s scarred palm. 

C-H-A-R-L-E-S 

“Charles?” Logan asks him. “That’s your name?” 

Francine— **Charles** —nods with his lip between his teeth. He keeps a gentle hold on Logan’s wrist despite having finished writing his name. 

“You don’t say much, do you?” 

Charles’ face closes off, and he stares at their feet. Logan forgets himself at that moment and tucks his free hand under Charles’ chin. Charles lifts his head without a fuss and stares up at him with watery eyes. There are bags under his eyes hidden beneath makeup, staining the pale skin a horrid purple and yellow. The longer Logan stares, the more he makes out freckles under foundation and a bruise healing along his jaw. There’s a thin scar on his forehead, too. He’s familiar with watching mutants strike their Dolls in the face, but his heart still clenches painfully in his chest. Charles blinks slowly at him, and Logan is thankful when no more tears come. 

“It’s all right, Chuck, don’t worry about it.” His hand drops from the little chin quivering in his fingers. “I’m Logan, by the way. **Just** Logan. None of that ‘mister’ crap.” 

His gruffness brings another smile to Charles’ face. Somehow, he’s still holding Logan’s wrist in his hand. Charles’ fingers squeeze the bones, but not hard enough to hurt. His other hand lifts to touch the thin skin stretched over his collarbones. Logan wiggles his wrist out of Charles’ grip, but instead of pulling back, he snags Charles’ friendly hand in his. Charles ducks his head with a bigger smile breaking through the gloom. His hair falls in his face, and Logan finds himself pushing it back behind his ear. He needs to get Charles back inside before he does anything stupid. 

“Let’s, uh, get you back to someone important, hmm?” 

Some of the joy slips from Charles’ smile, but he nods in agreement. He glances down to his bloody hand caught in Logan’s. The ring that had slashed into his friend’s face reflects little sparks of light at them. Charles frowns at the ring, harder and harder until his white teeth show behind his lips. He takes his hand back at that moment, not quite ripping it out of Logan’s grasp. Logan watches him yank and pull at the ring on his finger, grunting when it doesn’t give. Finally, Charles twists the damn thing free and pulls it off. He cocks his arm back and hurls the little ring over the gate and into the sea. The water below gleefully accepts another piece of wealth from the human world, and Charles turns back with his lips pressed into a stern line. 

“Nice arm you got there,” Logan drawls. 

Charles shrugs the compliment off and reaches for his arm, to hold it like a lady would. Logan stands still while staring down at him. Charles ducks his head with a blush already staining his cheeks. He huddles close and nudges Logan’s side back in the direction of the festivities. Shaking his head to clear the fresh scent of Charles from his nose, Logan leads the pretty Doll away from the sea. They make it about halfway back, walking amongst tall hedges, when they nearly collide with a man that flashes into existence directly in front of them.

Charles reacts before Logan does, cowering behind him and clutching onto the back of his suit jacket for dear life. Logan sweeps a hand behind himself to cage Charles against him. He's never seen this mutant before, not up close, but he recognizes the mutant’s dark red skin even in the dim of the garden. This had been one of Schmidt’s stooges, before he’d “mysteriously” disappeared and disbanded his gang. Logan throws a hand out towards the mutant, not giving away his claws yet but certainly ready. 

“I am here for Francine,” he sneers with a heavy accent that rolls his R’s. He holds his hand out and adds, “No trouble, of course. Give her to me.” 

“Not on your life, bub.” 

The mutant rolls his eyes and vanishes in a cloud as red as him. Expecting it, Logan swings him and Charles around and already has his claws out when the mutant reappears. He gets three deep gouges into his chest for his troubles. It stuns him, blood already oozing up to soak his white dress shirt, but it's not enough to disable him. He zips in and out of existence a few feet away. His black lips twist in a grimace, and his eyes glare at Logan. He vanishes again, and Logan crushes Charles against him, unsure of where the mutant will appear next. 

Logan’s vision fills with red as he appears a breath away from Logan’s face. He's too close and too fast for Logan to activate his claws, but no matter how hard he tries, he finds he can't anyway. The mutant’s triumphant grin turns to dismay and then anger when he too finds himself unable to move. Charles whimpers behind Logan, but he can do nothing but stare at the mutant in front of him. Footsteps coming from the mansion behind him, heading towards Charles, rips a growl out of Logan’s throat. 

“Azazel,” a feminine, syrupy voice purrs behind Logan’s ear. “What hole did you crawl out of, sugar?” 

“Fran-Francine,” he stutters, “She ran off… Erik—” 

His mouth freezes over the word before his eyes slip shut and he falls to the ground. Logan glances at him, wanting to dig his dress shoes into the mass of red skin and black suit, just to see if he's still alive. Charles somehow pulls away behind him, leaving cool night air to flood the space he'd occupied. Logan tries to fight the force holding him, to turn his head around and see what's happening, but he's still frozen to the spot. His bones ache under his skin with his effort to find Charles and make sure no one else tries to steal him. After a moment, the invasion leaves him, Logan stumbles forward with his interrupted momentum, but he catches himself soon enough. 

“What the hell?” Logan turns on his heel to face Charles cowering in the arms of a woman not much taller than him. “Who the hell are you?” 

The woman turns a bored eye on him, and the name _Emma Frost_ slips into his mind. Logan’s gaze darts to the chain he knows is wrapped around Charles wrist. She cards a hand through his loose hair and shushes him when he flinches. Charles peels open his eyes to give Logan a sad, pathetic pout. His Lady spares him no mercy though, with her piercing eyes and power already combing over him for details. He catches a glimpse of his own memory, of watching the tall man from before wrestle with Charles and force him into their little alcove. Her face twists at the image, and she extracts herself from his memory after having her fill of it. 

“Howlett, is it? And what part did you play in all this?” 

Logan’s upper lip twists at her high and mighty tone, but he keeps his attitude in check. He blares loudly in his head the question of why she didn't just lift that detail from him, too. Her expression doesn't change, but Logan is a gambling man. He knows she heard him. 

“Security detail for the event. I heard a disturbance and made sure, uh, **Francine** was okay.” 

“Your qualifications?” Her stare doesn’t falter, and her unwavering confidence has Logan in a sharing mood. 

“Former military. Quit that and been doin’ private security ever since. It’s been about a hundred years or so, in and out of the industry.” 

A pale eyebrow twitches. “Any good?” 

Logan grimaces and lets his claws loose, enjoying how the wet sound they make brings a twist to her lips. “I’d say so.” 

Frost glances down at the poor Doll quivering under her arm. Charles turns his face up towards her without her saying a thing. His eyes pinch shut, and Logan imagines her flicking through the memories in his mind, too. He hopes she sees just how horrible Charles’ “friend” had treated him, before Charles had defended himself. Logan’s chest still bubbles with pride at Charles’ spark of bravery. He hopes Charles won't ever need to strike someone again, but he's glad the little Doll isn’t broken enough to not fight back. 

A silent few minutes passes as Frost interrogates Charles. He sags against her side when she finally turns her head away and regards Logan with a shred more respect than before. 

“Thank you for looking after my little Francine. I trust she was a perfect lady while she was with you?” 

Disgust and confusion sour Logan’s stomach. The undulating wave of emotions lifts the hairs on the back of his neck. He can't help but rub the spaces between his knuckles where his claws hide, just to give his hands something to do. Charles stares at him while still under Frost’s arm. His eyes plead for Logan to agree and save him from more cruelty. His short fingers twist in his Lady’s gown, and he gnaws on his bottom lip again. Emma Frost _seems_ genuinely interested in the wellbeing of her Doll, but Logan knows all too well how deceiving people can be. The way she talks about Charles as if he isn't standing there rattles something in Logan’s gut. 

“Yea, she was the picture of manners and grace.” He tries to keep the negative tone in his voice neutral. Scott always said that he's not very good at that. “A perfect, uh, lady. Whatever.” 

Frost narrows her ice-like eyes at him. “And how would you have handled the situation, should my Francine have required your assistance?” 

Logan rolls his shoulders as the cold touch of her power plucks at the edges of his mind. Damn telepaths. 

“Protect her, obviously. Not that she needs anyone to swoop in and save her. You saw the arm on her. She'd have a mean right hook, if she could make a fist.” 

Charles bites back a grin and hides his face in Frost’ gown. Logan smells his happiness and ego from where he stands and doesn't need to see his pretty, little smile. Frost glances between them and curls an arm around Charles’ shoulders. Logan stares a moment longer at the curtain of Charles’ long hair before giving the Lady his attention. His lingering gaze on her Doll doesn't escape her notice. Logan purses his lips and dares her to mention it. The battle of stares passes on a draw when Frost tuts and straightens her back. 

“Again, you have my thanks. Please accept this.” She holds out a business card from the little clutch tucked under her other arm. Logan takes it without hesitating. “I'll be away to a conference a month from now, and I'll be leaving Francine behind. Call me, and I'll hire you as her bodyguard.” 

Logan stares at the card, thinking maybe this should happen the other way around: him handing his card to her. But before he can accept or decline, she turns around and escorts herself and Charles back to the party. Charles twists his head to watch Logan as they stalk away. A shy smile blooms on his lips, and Logan’s fingers twitch by his side in a farewell wave. His other fingers hold tightly to the smooth business card Frost had given him. He’ll definitely take her up on her offer, if only to see Charles again. It’s a dangerous, slippery thing that sends his stomach rolling. But as Logan rubs a thumb over the matte finish of the card, watching it sparkle slightly in the light, he recalls having never lived life safely.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna make it official? [Follow this](http://missgillette.tumblr.com)


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